Dare I, I thought then, seated in her car in that not so remote place where she was to let me off, lingering on the edge of the seat, waiting to leave, not wanting to, daring myself to take a step I know I shouldn’t,
Dare I?
Fingers aching as much as the rest of me, as I wondered how
it might feel if I did, if I touched it, embraced it, stroked it until the tips
grew as hard as I already was.
Dare I?
Like learning to ride a bicycle, it comes back even with the
lack of practice.
Dare I do what I ache to do? Will she let me, and how much
would be too much if I did, shocked when I did and she shuddered, revolted
maybe.
I stumbled out into the dark scared she would have me for
it.
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